Sunday Afternoon
by storybycorey
Summary: From the prompt "describe a character's typical Sunday afternoon". Sunday afternoons are reserved, invitations engraved in the finest calligraphy. Or something cheesy like that.


He pretends. Pretends he has things to do. Pretends the first and foremost thing on his mind is the Mysterious Mongolian Something-or-Other. Or basketball, yeah basketball. Just for good measure, he grabs the orange ball of distraction and bounces it a few times against the coffee table. Or there's probably something he should consider picking up at the grocery store, right? Maybe he should call the guys, catch up on the latest conspiracy theory, pick their complicated little brains until something worthwhile slips out. Trixie, Candi? It's been a while. Wonder how they're doing?

No, he doesn't have things to do. It's all an elaborate farce, and he knows it. And even if there were things to do, he wouldn't do them. Because Sunday afternoons, much as he may pretend otherwise, have been spoken for. _Spoken for_ isn't right though, because there's really not much speaking going on, is there? But they're reserved. Yes, that's better. Sunday afternoons are reserved, invitations engraved in the finest calligraphy. Or something cheesy like that.

A few hours in, and the pretending becomes mundane, even a little embarrassing, because he knows, he _knows_ , what comes next. He's slow about it, elegant even, setting the stage as though he's readying himself for a date. Would you like to join me this fine Sunday afternoon, Mr. Mulder? Yes, yes I would. Blinds closed, mood music playing, ass situated on the couch. Let the festivities commence.

It's different each time, depending on his mood, depending on his _creativity,_ if you will. Down and dirty in the stairwell? Romance her over dinner? Or perhaps a quickie in the car or on the desk or in Skinner's office or against the door or— And yet sometimes the scenario's so refined and elaborate, he impresses even himself. But no. Not tonight. Tonight he's feeling selfish. Tonight he thinks she'll suck his dick as though her life depends upon it. Yeah. Fuck yeah.

He's already hard. Of course he is. He's been hard since 1:00 this afternoon, knowing what's coming. He doesn't admit it, but he's had this scene in the works since Thursday, since she sucked that goddamn Tofutti-fucksickle past her ripe pink lips, and proceeded to fuck it with her mouth right there in front of him. She does that sometimes. Fucks things right in front of him. Or maybe that's just his perception. Honestly, who the hell cares. Because it's finally Sunday afternoon.

Okay, enough of that, let's get going here. Tshirt. Yeah, she's wearing a tshirt. A tight one. No, no, no. Scully doesn't wear tight tshirts. Gotta make this real. Okay, okay, she's in her suit. With a tank top beneath- that'll work. In the evening, over here for Files or Research or Skepticism, something like that, doesn't really matter, sitting next to him on the couch.

Her lips, Christ, her lips. There've been times he's lost an entire train of thought, an Amtrak at that, to those sweet, swollen, beestung lips. She's talking with those lips now, in his fantasy, being cynical and judgmental and everything else she always is, including sexy as hell, but he's barely even listening. She notices. _Are you even listening, Mulder?_ she says. He should act as though he is, nod and throw in a _but Scully, did you consider this?_ But instead, this time, _this time_ he decides to tell the truth. _No, Scully, I'm not listening. I'm too busy looking at your lips and imagining them wrapped around my thick, hard cock._

Hooboy. That gets her. She gasps at first, his little dream Scully, gasps and turns cotton candy pink. For a moment he lets his mind wander, pondering the many other shades of pink her body most surely possesses. He'd bet there's a whole Crayola box worth of pinks sprinkled across her coloring book skin. He clenches his crotch at that thought.

She fidgets with her fingers (they're pink, too), and he's almost sorry he said it, even in this fantasy world on his black leather couch, but then… Then she stops fidgeting. She swipes her tongue across her lips and smiles, and in a sweet, sexy voice with her chin tucked to her chest, she says _Mulder, I didn't want to say it, but you're not the only one imagining my lips wrapped around your cock..._

He groans then, lifting his hips right up off the leather and straight towards her imaginary mouth. _Oh Scully, oh baby…_ And then somehow she's already down on her knees (she does that sometimes, shapeshifts from the couch and down onto the floor), looking up at him with that pristine face that belongs in a museum somewhere, in the Louvre or at least hung on some rich aristocrat's wall. She raises an eyebrow, then goes straight for his fly. Well my, my, my. He's always suspected she was a little minx, his Scully.

He pulls it out (his cock, of course), displays it atop his jeans for her to see. _I'm hard for you, Scully, see? Always hard for you, for you and your luscious, wet mouth._ It's pathetic really, how desperate he is for her.

 _God, you're gorgeous_ she sighs, and he wants to shove himself so deeply down her throat, his dick will reach her heart. That's absurd, he knows, but Christ, he wants to fuck every last inch of her, to pack himself into every one of her orifices, with his cock, with his fingers, with his bleeding, bleeding heart. Until he's been entirely consumed by her.

He's sweating now, cock in his hand, Scully biting her perfectly swollen lips, trying her best to be patient. _Mmmulder_ she whines, tongue flicking across her teeth. She's unreal, and he wants to both laugh and cry at the thought that she's here, parting her lips and looking up at him with that innocent-but-so-fucking-naughty gleam in her eyes. _Scully?_ he asks, and _oh_ _God, please_ she answers, sounding so desperate and hungry, he feels suddenly guilty for making her wait.

So he feeds himself to her. Places his hard, needy flesh on her eager pink tongue and lets out a strangled groan as she sucks him deep inside. Scully. Oh god, Scully. He spits into his hand and squeezes himself, slides the other hand down to pet her glorious imaginary hair. So pretty. How does she still manage to be so pretty after everything he's put her through? How does she manage to fucking _glow_ , to radiate goodness and perfection and everything he's not, when all he does is follow behind her, blowing out her flame? He doesn't deserve her beestung lips or her coloring book skin or the way her mouth slides so deliciously along his cock.

He licks a finger, circling it round and round the pulsing, purple head. She knows just how he likes it. She always knows. His fantasy Scully sucks and grips and licks in all the right places, she moans and she whimpers, she says things like _I wanna fuck you_ and _Jesus Christ yes_ and _I wouldn't change a day, not a day, not a day._ He squeezes shut his eyes and tangles his fingers through her hair, and she swirls that tongue exactly the way she did last Thursday.

 _Scully, fuck, baby_ he whines, his fist moving faster, her cheeks suctioning out while she cradles his balls. _So good, you're so fucking good at this_ he grinds out through vice-clenched teeth. Her eyes are bright and blue, and she smiles with them while she moves, while she works her tongue like the blood red stripe of a barbershop pole.

He's getting close, whimpering and jerking, and he wants to come in her hot, little mouth, that's been his plan all weekend. _Mmmm, mmmm_ she hums, encouraging him, but then no, no it's not right. In fact it's all wrong, and she's not on her knees anymore, she's in his lap, sliding down on top of him, taking him inside, and _Scully oh Scully you're so.._.

He grits his teeth and throws back his head, and her whole body presses against him, arms round his neck and lips slack beneath the crook of his jaw. Her moist, shivery breaths make him ache. He clenches himself with tight, slick fingers, the way he imagines her pussy to be, _Christ, Scully's pussy_ , moves them slowly up and down. He wants to pound her, wants to fuck her fuck her fuck her, but she deserves so much more than that, even in his filthiest, most frenzied fantasies.

So he goes nice and slow, loves her tender so that Elvis would approve, until he can't anymore, until no man could be expected to, until she's riding him hard and panting quick and fast, until she's purring desperately in his ear _God Mulder God, FUCK me_. And holy shit, how could he refuse a request made like that, coming from those Crayola pink lips while her Crayola pink clit is grinding so feverishly against his cock? So he fucks her. Into his slick pussy fist, he fucks her, frantically, whining like a baby, things like _please_ and _want you so bad_ and _you'resogoddamnperfectScullyFUCK_. It's embarrassing really.

He's still afterwards, sticky with the evidence she wasn't really there. She's never really there on Sunday afternoons, and hot as his scenarios may begin, they always end like this. Him clammy and pathetic on his black leather couch, covered in his own come.

He rises to clean himself up, strips off his jeans and shirt and throws them into the hamper. As he pulls a clean shirt over his head, the phone rings.

"Mulder." Sometimes he wonders whether she knows. Whether she has a Sunday afternoon or a Thursday morning or a Friday night. Whether he stars in her fantasies as vividly as she stars in his.

"Hey," she murmurs. Her voice makes his heart throb. "Ummm, you know, I'm not quite sure why I called, just checking in I guess. What're you up to?"

"Oh well, you know, it's Sunday afternoon. The usual."

She chuckles, and amazingly his dick twitches. He can still feel her lips there.

"How about you, Scully?"

"Yeah, yeah, the usual here, too, I guess. Hey Mulder?"

"Hmmm?"

"Maybe one of these Sundays we should just do the usual together. Seems to make sense, huh? I mean at least we'd save on electricity in one of our apartments…"

He manages to hide the strangled choke in his throat before responding. "Ummm, yeah, ha ha, yeah. That sounds like a real good idea, Scully."


End file.
